


love-forty

by ugliegay



Series: the long game [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tennis, M/M, oiks akaashi kuroo and bokuto are all pro tennis players, the professional tennis au no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 16:36:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14856323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ugliegay/pseuds/ugliegay
Summary: “[Bokuto]’s the most passionate player I’ve ever met. The guy loves his tennis and he’ll make you love it too.”Akaashi scoffs. He hasn’t ever loved tennis. He likes it well enough, was good enough to play it and get paid to do it. It’s stimulating, it’s fun on a good day. He loves his cat, loves his sister, loved Kuroo, but never tennis. He hardly thinks a player could change his mind like that.-In which Bokuto proves Akaashi wrong





	love-forty

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all and welcome to an au inspired by the sport that has had me captivated since my dear friend [em](https://twitter.com/beefkuto) introduced it to me a few weeks ago. This started with an au em [drew](https://twitter.com/beefkuto/status/982116065265172481?s=21), which expanded into a full blown series that i plan to explore in depth once i finish with my current long fic. 
> 
> Bokuto is wholehearted inspired by our favorite tennis player, Rafael Nadal, who has captured my heart in these few weeks. I hope you guys love this too! I have added some definitions at the bottom in case you wanted to understand the lingo a bit more. Thank you always for reading.

There’s a lot of perks to being gay, Akaashi thinks. He can get a manicure at his favorite nail shop without fear of being emasculated, he’s just naturally funnier than any straight person he’s ever talked to, and best of all, he can happily enjoy looking at Bokuto Koutarou’s biceps without some weird justification. He’s just really, really gay.

There’s perks to being the third best tennis player in the world as well as being gay. He’s been around the world time and time again, kicked ass and failed miserably on just about every continent. He loves the thrill of competition, the burn of his muscles after a hard fought match, not to mention the men that practically throw themselves at Akaashi’s feet to worship the ground he walks on.

And Akaashi’s flattered, really. He appreciates the sentiment, but since starting on tour when he was eighteen, he’s never taken a single man up on their offer.

After a hard fought, hard won match against one Oikawa Tooru, it’s Konoha who can’t help but tease Akaashi the entire time.

“It took you _three_ games to get into the swing of things, Akaashi-kun. You should’ve heard the reporters.” Konoha’s hands begin to massage gently at his left leg. It’s been giving quite a bit of trouble lately, Konoha’s fingers feel so good he can’t help but let out a tiny sigh.

“ _Keiji, you had a slower start than usual today, would you like to explain why you think that was?_ ” Konoha says in English, a terrible impression of the French reporter from earlier that day.

Akaashi fixes his physio with an unamused stare. “Shut the fuck up,” he grumbles, lifting his other leg for Konoha to massage his sore ankle. Gods he’s so sore today, tired as all hell. Oikawa didn’t give him any breathing room. He had to fight for every last point and it really didn’t help that Oikawa is extremely attractive.

“Took you awhile to stop staring at his thighs, huh Akaashi-kun?” Konoha says this with a crooked smile and Akaashi has to fight himself not to kick him in the face.

“I could fire you at any moment.”

“You would never.”

And Konoha’s right. He’s been by Akaashi’s side since before even picking up a racket. Konoha is Akaashi’s little slice of home among the dizzying foreign scenery that almost always surrounds Akaashi, probably the only person he can confide in about these problems. So he sighs and gives in to Konoha’s gossipy nature.

“It was his jawline really,” Akaashi mumbles, impassive stare betraying the blush rising on his cheeks.

Konoha looks up, begins to work his upper thigh muscles. “He’s got a rather nice face, hasn’t he. Nice fluffy hair.”

“Shut up.”

“Dreamy brown eyes.”

“I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

“Voted tennis’s hottest according to my twitter poll last month.”

Akaashi lifts his head curiously. “Was Bokuto-san in the running?”

Konoha’s eyes glint in the low light of the room. “Indeed he was,” he smirks, “came in last behind Tetsu-kun. It was a close race between you and Oikawa-kun.

“That’s bullshit,” Akaashi murmurs, eyebrows crossing. “Bokuto-san is easily the most attractive man on tour.”

“That, my dear,” Konoha grunts with effort, picking himself up off the floor, “is a matter of opinion.”

“No, really, look at Bokuto-san’s overall build. He’s extremely muscular and the other two have nothing on h-”

“Akaashi-kun.” Konoha shakes his shoulders.

Akaashi needs to learn how to ground himself, really, it’s getting ridiculous. He’s tired, his brain is fried from speaking English all damn day, every muscle aches. He just wants to go back to his hotel room, take the longest bath ever, and pass out after eating as much onigiri as his stomach can take. He just has to make it past the media swarm on the way out.

Akaashi begins to gather his things. He takes a swig of his water and bounces off the table with smirk smile. “Thank you, Konoha-san,” he says, as he does every time these sessions are finished.

“Yeah, yeah,” Konoha chuckles, “Get some rest, don’t go hard on that leg until practice alright.”

And right before Akaashi leaves, he get his last piece of advice through a small foil packet being pressed into his hands. “Do us all a favor and get laid Akaashi-kun,” Konoha says. “You need to be 100% focused for Friday.”

Akaashi stares in disbelief, watching Konoha’s smug form retreat with blush burning from the tips of his fingers to the roots of his hair.

-

Akaashi sits in his hotel room, staring at the condom. Maybe if he glares at hard enough it’ll disappear into his hand, melt away to the ground so he doesn’t have to think about it again. Has his horny gay energy really affected his game _that much._

He rubs his temples. “Get ahold of yourself, Keiji,” he whispers to himself, rolling his eyes. If it’s really that much of a problem, he’d just go get a friendly neighborhood blow job, then wait and see.

And it’s not really unheard of. Players don’t talk about it but Akaashi knows for a fact that Kuroo Tetsurou, ruler of hard courts, refuses to have sex on nights before competition.

“It’ll mess with my mojo, ‘Kaashi,” he used to say to him, shirtless in bed across with him, munching obnoxiously on a celery stick; his favorite.

Others _have_ to go out and get laid, and still others don’t give a shit about that kind of thing. Tennis players are fickle, Akaashi’s come to realize this over the years. Rituals before matches can make or break performance.

Akaashi, for his part, doesn’t sleep. He can’t explain why, but on nights before matches, he stays up until the tightness under his eyes becomes too much to bear. He naps at best, wakes up, stretches for as long as humanly possible. He listens to music on his way to match, talks as little as he can to any of the reporters.

 _Akaashi_ is fickle. Getting laid could throw his game off, make him too tired to perform right. He puts the condom away. He has time to experiment with this later. For now, he settles in for a long, sleepless night.

-

It’s unfair of Kuroo to have integrated himself into Akaashi’s routine the way he has. For a good portion on his career, he woke up next to Kuroo Tetsurou. That obnoxious voice would be in his ear the moment he opened his eyes, calming those pre match nerves with all the love in his golden eyes.

Which really sucks considering they broke up just three months ago.

It’s with heaviness in Akaashi’s bitter, petty heart that he makes a call to Kuroo.

“ _Hello Keiji-kun_ , how’s New York!” Kuroo shouts in his ear, as lively as ever.

“Fine,” he quips, trying to mask the shake in his voice. It’s unsuccessful. He feels like he’s going to explode.

“You’re playing today aren’t you?”

Akaashi wants to scream because Kuroo knows he’s playing today. Kuroo would be in New York if it weren’t for the upper thigh injury. He’s being flippant, maybe just as bitter as Akaashi.

“Yes,” he grits out. “Bokuto Koutarou.”

“Oya?”

“Shut up.”

“You’ll do amazing, Keiji-kun,” Kuroo says, a sudden break in his teasing demeanor. It’s like he used to do during those quiet mornings, thumbing under Akaashi’s eyes. “He’s got the power, but you’ve got the skill. Plus he sucks on hard courts, you’ll be okay.”

“If you can call two titles ‘sucking’,” Akaashi replies, this time with a smile. Even with the bitterness in his chest, he calms down at the familiar banter between them.

“You’re better on faster surfaces,” Kuroo counters. “You’ll be okay. You always are.”

“I dunno I think he might double bagel me,” Akaashi says with gentle smile.

“Oh, Keiji, have more confidence.”

“With those biceps…”

“Point taken.”

“He’ll be taking more than enough points from me.”

Kuroo laughs, deep, from the bottom of his chest. Akaashi’s chuckles in tandem with him. It’s familiar. The beat of his heart slows. He sighs and waits for Kuroo’s next words.

“Have you ever played Bokkun?” he asks.

Akaashi tilts his head. “No, never.”

“Lucky draw,” Kuroo murmurs. “There’s a reason he’s number one and it’s not because of his beautiful forehand.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s the most passionate player I’ve ever met. The guy loves his tennis and he’ll make you love it too.”

Akaashi scoffs. He hasn’t ever _loved_ tennis. He likes it well enough, was good enough to play it and get paid to do it. It’s stimulating, it’s fun on a good day. He loves his cat, loves his sister, loved Kuroo, but never tennis. He hardly thinks a player could change his mind like that.

“Listen, I have to go,” Akaashi says after a moment. “Thank you for talking to me.”

“Anytime, Keiji,” Kuroo murmurs. “Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

Akaashi hangs up. The dial tone rings through the air. He takes a deep breath, closes his burning eyes, and drops down to the hotel floor. It’s the point of no return. His routine begins.

-

Konoha’s right. Akaashi should’ve at the very least jerked off last night, because Bokuto Koutarou looks downright mouth watering in his deep crimson kit. It stretches thin over broad shoulders, biceps threatening to tear those white accented sleeves right at the seams. He looks like a ball of fire, contrasting brightly against the dark blue of Arthur Ashe Stadium.

Bokuto has taken him to the fifth set, fighting him tooth and nail for every single damn point. It’s absolutely exhausting and the man before him is ruthless. What surprises Akaashi the most though, is the way Bokuto doesn’t underestimate, not even for a single second. Not even when his playing gets sloppy, when his serves come easy, when his eyes grow weary.

It’s love-forty, Akaashi’s zero standing pathetically beneath Bokuto’s match point. Sweat pours down his impassive face and threatens to leak into his eyes. It’s Bokuto’s serve.

The bastard is smiling. His white headband sits at his hairline. It keeps moving further and further up with every twitch of his eyebrows. He bounces the ball on his racket a few times for good measure and then he’s off.

Those muscles flex and contort and he slams the ball down to Akaashi’s side of the court.

It comes from nowhere, this burst of passion that’s like lava in his veins, something he’s never felt before. He darts out in front of the ball delivers a clean shot, right down the line of the court. It’s fast enough and just out of Bokuto’s reach. He scrambles to get it, feet squeaking against the court but it’s no use. The ball bounces against the wall.

Bokuto swears, the Japanese leaving his lips and it’s all the more satisfying that Akaashi understands exactly what he says.

And Akaashi catches up, just like that. It’s like a switch goes on in his head that’s been turned off for twenty-two years. There’s passion, fury, energy to his movements that’s never been there and it’s Bokuto who’s put it there. It’s Bokuto’s golden eyes piercing and enraged. When Akaashi takes the next three games, he thinks Bokuto might break his racket over his knee.

(Bokuto Koutarou has never broken a racket in his fives years playing professional tennis.)

The score sits completely even. Just two more games and Akaashi can take the last set, take the whole match and run with it. There’s a lump in his chest that _makes him_ want to do it. He’s never wanted so badly to steal his opponent’s victory.

So it’s a complete disappointment when Bokuto wins the match on an ace serve. The ball slams past Akaashi’s head, whipping the black curls out from his visor. Suddenly, he wants to break his racket, step on it, grind all the strings into the acrylic of the court.

He doesn’t. That would be childish. He goes to the center of the court, wipes his brow in pure, unbridled frustration. Stopped short at the semifinal, far enough away from winning it all to make it sting. He’s bitter, so so bitter.

Frustration hangs around him like a dark cloud and he’s regretting the black kit. He must look like the epitome of misery next to Bokuto, who burns so bright.

Bokuto, for his part is overjoyed. He’s bouncing on his toes, wiping the sweat off his brow with a smile that could outshine the sun. They shake hands after the match, per formality more than anything, but it’s the words the Bokuto says to him that hit him straight in the chest, awakening a dormant spirit he hasn’t felt since he played in high school.

“It was a good match, Akaashi-san! I look forward to playing you again!”

It extracts a grin from Akaashi, equal parts smug and inspired. “As do I, Bokuto-san.”

**Author's Note:**

> mmmmmmnb tennis
> 
> physio - a personal on call doctor person to help warm up a player’s muscles and massage any aches and pains ect. 
> 
> hard courts - a tennis court made of acrylic in which the ball bounces faster than on clay, but not as fast as on grass
> 
> double bagel - to win two sets 6-0
> 
> forehand - hitting with the front of the racket (typically with one arm)
> 
> kit - the entire ensemble a tennis player wears
> 
> also because this confused me greatly at first: a match is what you call an entire game of tennis (can go anywhere from 1-3 hours). in order to win a match, a player must win either two sets (for more minor tournaments) or three sets (for major competitions). in order to win a set, a player must win six games. and then in order to win a game, a player must be the first to get one point beyond 40. the scoring goes 15, 30, 40, game point. when a player is at zero, it’s called love, hence the title, love-forty. 
> 
> thanks for reading!


End file.
